She is Your Mirror
by Kunegundian
Summary: In which we gain a deeper understanding of Nurse Chapel's character. The Enterprise receives orders to recover a Vulcan captive from the planet Coridan; Christine finds aspects of herself reflected in the captive. "Romance" genre chosen with reluctance.
1. Chapter 1

A note to the reader: this story is comparable to a nice ginger-squash soup. While the plot is not as thick as, say, week-old Musaman curry, the character study is rich, complex, and tasteful. Therefore, reader, expect neither light comedic entertainment nor syrupy fantasy (although a little comedy and a little angst is not totally lacking here). And if you want to get straight to the nitty gritty, for Surak's sake skip the Prelude.

**She is Your Mirror**

Prelude

For a sentient life form, there is never an end to learning. Confronted with the infinite, life will always seek to expand. The sapient being knows it can never understand everything it wishes to, yet it will continue to reach out into the unknown. This story is not, however, about reaching outwards into the distant places of the universe. Often, it is more difficult to understand the self than it is to examine separate phenomena, for the self cannot observe itself. Others are required to give that insight, even if their observations are difficult to hear. This is a story about such insights, and what it took for one sapient being to see itself.

Chapter One: Christine Chapel

Can it be right to give what I can give?

To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears

As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years

Re-sighing on my lips renunciative

Through those infrequent smiles which fail to

live

For all thy adjurations? O my fears,

That this can scarce be right! We are not

peers,

So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,

That givers of such gifts as mine are, must

Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas!

I will not soil thy purple with my dust,

Nor breath my poison on thy Venice-glass,

Nor give thee any love-- which were unjust.

Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass.

**Elizabeth Browning,**__**9th in **_**Sonnets from the Portuguese**_

"Nurse... Nurse!"

From across the room Christine padded swiftly to the biobed, medical scanner in hand. "Do you need something?" Her voice was calm and reassuring. The young man on the biobed visibly relaxed.

"I... I thought I felt my heart murmur," he explained, eyeing the scanner as Christine waved it above his chest. "I thought maybe I was going to relapse."

The scanner meeped quietly in the nurse's ear, but Christine gave no sign she could hear it. She smiled maternally. "Your heart is healing exactly as it ought to," she said. "All you need is a good rest, and you'll be out of here before tomorrow morning."

The patient smiled nervously. "I guess Bones knew what he was doing." He closed his eyes and took a deep, if cautious breath.

Christine stole a glance at her tricorder. The patient's agitation was driving his heart rate too high. It wasn't immediately dangerous, she knew, but it would slow his recovery. She composed her face into a soft smile, and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "I've never seen him lose a heart patient," she said soothingly. Her voice purred with years of training. "Why, McCoy's accomplished trickier things before. His last open-heart surgery was performed under fire. To make things worse, all during the operation the blood donor kept trying to get up to report for duty--" She gave a wry smile.

"That was Sarek he saved, wasn't it? During all the fuss about Coridan?"

"That's right. And if he could pull _that_ off, you've certainly got nothing to worry about."

The patient sighed, and glanced up at the nurse's serenely confident face. The light shone softly behind her, giving her blonde hair a halo-like sheen. It was an effect she had used many times. As the patient looked at her, the quiet warning from the scanner slowed; finally, it died away altogether.

Christine patted his hand. "You just rest there," she said, smiling. "If you need anything at all, I'll be right next door in the lab."

"Thanks, Nurse. I think I'll be fine now." He shut his eyes. For a few seconds Christine waited by his side; then, setting down the tricorder, she left the room.

* * *

The lab was quiet and empty. Christine sat at one of the benches and stared at the computer consoles and equipment scattered about the room. A lifetime ago, she had used equipment like this in her own research. Or had it only been a few years? It hardly made a difference; so much had changed. It was almost difficult now to remember why she often felt like a cheap imitation of the way she was before Starfleet.

She had been prepared to lose herself in bio-research. It would have been so easy. In bio-research, there was no one who needed to be taken care of, and no smiles to practice. No calm, soothing voice to carefully cultivate. No appearances to maintain. Only data, and the knowledge that came from its analysis. But then, there had been Roger...

"Christine... are you in here?"

Her eyes popped open. "Uhura?" She looked up. Peering tentatively around the doorway was her friend. She sat up straight, and waved. "Come and sit," she said, a little too cheerfully.

The communications officer smiled knowingly. "You were daydreaming again. I can tell by the way you smile so stiffly. No, don't give me that--" Christine had begun to protest, but Uhura waved a hand to silence her. "I know that expression, and I know you," she said, sitting down. "You're thinking about leaving Starfleet again."

Christine gave a light laugh. "I should never have told you about what happened on Exo III. I'm never going to hear the end of it, am I?"

Uhura folded her hands and peered at her friend. "If you want to hear the end of it, Chris, you've got to _get_ to the end of it first."

"Is that one of Doctor M'Benga's, or did you come up with it all by yourself?"

Uhura laughed. "Nope, all me," she said. "Listen..." Her voice took on a more serious tone. "I don't mean to spring this on you, but this has been on my mind for a while. Will you hear me out?"

Christine's smooth brow furrowed, but she nodded.

"Right." She breathed deeply. "We've been friends for a while. But we haven't always been as close as we are now. I notice things now that no one else does--like the way you always move as quietly as possible when you're under stress. Or like the distance you keep from all the other girls, even if you aren't on duty. I didn't see that before I really knew you; now it's hard to ignore." She saw Christine's face was placid, but very still; she decided to get to the point. "After Exo III, you were given the chance to go back to the career you left behind. You chose to stay. Now, it's not that I _want_ you to leave--you're my friend, after all--but ever since you told me how you'd found Roger..." She trailed off, watching Christine's face harden ever so slightly. "I don't want to say I've figured you out, but...I've begun to think that you regret staying."

There was a pregnant pause. Christine seemed to be debating whether or not to reply; Uhura knew enough to wait. "I _will_ fulfill my tour of duty," she said finally. "I'm quite sure of that."

"But are you happy with that decision? You could still have a very successful career in research. I know you could." Uhura was almost pleading.

Christine shook her head. "I knew that I wouldn't leave the Enterprise the moment I found out what had happened to my fiancée."

"Why? You don't need Dr. Korby, or any man to have a career--you're smart enough by yourself!"

"It isn't that." Christine looked down at her neatly folded hands. "It isn't that at all."

Uhura watched her downcast, stock-still eyes carefully. She knew the nurse was deciding how much she wanted to reveal. Uhura wished Christine had more trust in her—but she also knew that this was the most Nurse Chapel opened up for anyone.

"I had a nice, neat plan," Christine continued. "Then Roger was gone. I can't go back to that life now. I'd been looking for him for so long..." She trailed off, as if she'd forgotten her train of thought. When she resumed, it was clear she was picking her words carefully. "I realize now I wasn't really looking for Roger at all. I was looking for some kind of direction and meaning to my life." She blinked, as if surprised at her own words. "I suppose I'm still looking."

"Looking for direction...!" Uhura exclaimed in amazement. "Frankly, Chris, I don't buy that. You are one of the most disciplined lieutenants on this ship; you're nothing _but _direction. If you ask me, deep space is where direction _loses_ meaning, not where it's found."

"It's as good a place to look as any," Christine replied evasively.

"Huh." Uhura was obviously unconvinced. "You never told me what attracted you to Dr. Korby in the first place. From what I hear, he didn't have much time for romance."

"Well," Christine laughed softly. "I wasn't exactly looking for romance. What I wanted was stability, and the opportunity to expand my knowledge. Roger offered me both."

"Sounds like a bummer of a relationship to me," Uhura said, grinning.

Christine shrugged. "His ideas fascinated me. He thought that a world without emotion would be a utopia—no wonder he became so enthralled by the android civilization of Exo III. He was a very brilliant man, you know. His philosophies about emotion captured my imagination." Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I was rather naive, then."

Uhura stared at her in incredulous wonder. "I think," she said slowly, "I'm beginning to see a pattern in all this."

Christine looked sharply at the communications officer. "That was a completely different life," she said forcefully. "I was still a young student--I had no idea how complex the world really was. I can see now how simplistic Roger's ideas really were."

Uhura had to smile. "The funny thing about you, Christine," she said, "Is that you're always putting on a mask, trying to fool yourself. Sometimes I wonder if you can even recognize _yourself_ anymore."

Christine turned her face away angrily. "If anyone else said that to me--" She broke off, biting her lip in consternation.

From across the table Uhura sat frozen, watching her worriedly. It wasn't often that the nurse allowed herself to show anger.

"But then," Christine continued, "maybe you're the only one who could see through all my masks." She stared into the floor. "Maybe you're right--I _don't _recognize myself anymore. I invested so much into my plan to marry Roger, settle down, and do my research--when it all fell apart, I sort of...lost myself."

"And you stayed on board to find yourself again."

Christine buried her face in her hands.

"Oh, honey--" Uhura rushed to kneel beside her friend. "It's all right. It's okay to cry."

A great shudder ran through her body. Her shoulders drooped forward, and she turned her face away. "I don't know what's come over me. I don't have any reason to cry, I shouldn't--"

"No, Christine--don't do that. I know _exactly_ what's come over you. You've been hiding your feelings for too long and buried them too deep, and now they're coming back for you."

Christine made a small hiccuping noise, like she had swallowed a sob.

Uhura squeezed her arm. "You might hide your feelings from everyone else, but for goodness' sakes, don't hide them from yourself."

Christine shook her head. "I don't even know myself, Uhura," she said brokenly, "I've been..." She gestured towards her friend. "...wearing a mask, all this time, even since _childhood_--I've only just become aware of it. How can I stop now? I'm afraid to let go. Who knows what I might become?"

"Well, I know what you'll become if you don't--a nervous wreck. You keep saying you want to find yourself, but you never will unless you acknowledge your own feelings. Christine--" Uhura shook her head emphatically. "Just because you let yourself cry doesn't mean you're changing who you _are_. You're just releasing what you've pent up inside. It never helps to deny what you feel--just let those feelings leave you."

Christine looked stricken. "Let the feelings leave you..."

At that moment Doctor McCoy rushed into the lab. "Where's M'Benga? Chapel--oh--" He stopped short upon seeing the two women at the lab bench.

Christine stood up, her face as calm and collected as ever. "Everything's all right, Doctor," she said, as Uhura slowly rose beside her.

McCoy peered at them for a moment; then he shrugged. "I've got to find Dr. M'Benga. Do any of you know where he is? I need an expert on Vulcans."

Christine's eyes widened.

"It's not Spock, Chapel, for heaven's sakes."

"Then who...?" She involuntarily looked away, embarrassed.

"The Federation has reason to believe that there is a Vulcan woman being detained illegally on Coridan."

"What--the _Coridans_, taking a Vulcan hostage?" Uhura said, confused. "But that's unthinkable--the Vulcans are responsible for their acceptance into the Federation, they protected Coridan's dilithium mines from the Orions--I remember when Sarek cast the vote that won them Federation membership. Why would they...?"

"I don't know, Uhura. They wouldn't tell us. All I know is that the admiral wants us to go down there, find her, and bring her home."

"There used to be Coridian rebels hostile to the Vulcans... could they still be active?"

"I don't _know_, Uhura. Just get me M'Benga, will you?"

"Sure, Doctor." She squeezed Christine's hand and rushed into the hall to find an intercom.

Christine breathed slowly. Suddenly a thought struck her; she looked up at the doctor. "McCoy," she said, frowning, "if the hostage needs medical treatment, why can't _you_ treat her?"

"I might not be qualified. We know nothing about her situation. All we know is that, if the intelligence is right, she's been on Coridan since the age of four. That was eighteen years ago, in Vulcan reckoning—she'll be twenty-two by now."

"That long! But why...?"

McCoy shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine. There's no telling what's been done to her all this time. She could be a complete wreck, for all we know. I've got no experience with this sort of thing. I'm a doctor, not a psychiatrist--well, not for Vulcans, anyway. Spock isn't exactly the best reference."

Christine smirked.

"With any luck, M'Benga will know what to do."

"You're not going down yourself?"

"Well, we'll see what he knows."

A few moments later M'Benga strode into the lab, Uhura and the captain following closely behind.

"I've briefed Dr. M'Benga on the situation," said Kirk. "Now all we need is a course of action."

"Well, hold on, Jim--isn't Spock going with?"

"Yes, he's coming--" From behind the lab bench, Christine could see that the captain was a bit miffed. She knew he didn't like running errands when he could be exploring uncharted territory. "-- but his scanners can't find a Vulcan anywhere on the planet--excepting those we already know are there. Either she's already dead, or they've got some way to block the scan." He sighed, irritated. "He's trying to find another way to figure out where this person is."

"Are they _sure_ there's a Vulcan down there?"

"Starfleet Intelligence is sure; and that's good enough for the admiral."

"And so they're making _us_ do their dirty work," huffed McCoy, crossing his arms.

"I hardly think it can be called 'dirty work'," remarked Christine, stepping out from behind the bench. "If there is a woman who needs help, and we can provide that help, we should be glad to give it." There was an awkward silence. From behind the captain Uhura caught her eye, and gave her a small nod and a wink.

Kirk frowned at the nurse's piercing stare. "Spoken like a true nurse, Chapel--" he said after a pause. "You're right. We shouldn't waste any more time." He turned to Dr. M'Benga. "What can we expect when we find her?"

M'Benga heaved a sigh. "Well..." He paused, as if trying to decide where to begin.

"That bad, huh?" McCoy quipped wryly.

M'Benga smiled wanly. "Not necessarily. Really, it's hard to predict what state she'll be in. It depends on what she's been through. Starfleet is fairly sure, though, that she was taken from her family by force. And if that is the case, we can expect her not to remember Vulcan at all."

"Not remember Vulcan?" echoed Uhura. "But four years is a lot to forget—people can't just erase four years of their lives because those memories have become painful."

"Vulcans can, and do," interjected Spock, "as Dr. M'Benga knows." Everyone turned towards him as he stepped into the room.

"Good grief," said Bones peevishly. "How many more people are we going to pack in here? This is a laboratory, not a conference room."

Kirk held up a hand to silence him. "Did you find her, Spock?"

"No, Captain."

Kirk sighed.

"However, I did narrow down considerably the possibilities for her location. There is a small area on the planet that is shielded from our sensor scans. The sensor could not find any unexplained Vulcan life signs outside of this area. Therefore, I suggest we begin our search there."

"And where is that?"

"The place is within the town of Luknao, which has traditionally served as a trading center with the Orions. According to Coridan census data, it is the home of some of the wealthiest Coridians."

"Is it a neighborhood? A market? Rebel stronghold? What?" Kirk gestured impatiently.

"A combination." Spock's eyebrow rose. "The area I could not scan is also home to Coridan's wealthiest brothel."

* * *

Spock's words weighed heavily on everyone in the room.

Christine felt slightly nauseated. "Then, Spock," she said softly, "it follows that the missing Vulcan must be there, in captivity."

"That is so, Nurse Chapel," he answered. "The next question, of course, is who holds her captive?"

"This has got to bad for diplomacy," murmured McCoy.

"I have no doubt the Vulcan High Command would agree, Doctor," said Spock, nodding curtly in assent.

"Well, undoubtedly the Coridian government will have some explaining to do. But, gentlemen, let's concentrate on things we can do something about. M'Benga--"

"Yes, Captain."

"What advice can you give us?"

Christine's heart fell when she saw the frown on the Vulcan specialist's face. "If she hasn't had any contact with other Vulcans for eighteen years, she probably hasn't been trained to control the reordering of their own neural pathways." He sighed. "If that's the case, she'll have _buried_, rather than erased, all memories of her life before being captured. Worse, she'll be unprepared for the consequences of bringing those memories to the surface. Repressed memories can have devastating effects for Vulcans." He looked darkly at Dr. McCoy. "It could be bad."

"Well, what do we do about it?"

M'Benga shrugged. "Not much you _can_ do--she has to confront her memories sometime. The best thing would be to bring her safely aboard as soon as possible."

"Don't you think you should be down there?"

The doctor shook his head. "You won't need me. Just try not to bring her aboard in an unconscious state—for an untrained Vulcan, it would be best to avoid that much of a change. Otherwise," he shrugged, "there's nothing I can do that you couldn't."

"Well, I guess that means I'm coming down with you," said McCoy, shooing Spock out into the hallway. "Come on, Jim—let's get this over with."

Dr. M'Benga and Uhura left together, animatedly discussing what the landing party might find in Luknao. Christine rose to follow them, but McCoy turned back to stop her.

"I need you to hold down the fort, Chapel," he said, running a hand nervously through his hair. "Prepare a biobed with restraints and whatever else you think might be useful. We could return with anything." He left.

The lab was silent once more. Christine began to walk briskly towards sickbay to ready a bed.

Eighteen years. It was a long time for anyone to be held captive. She reached for the alcove that held the restraints, pensive. It was anyone's guess what the landing party would find, but the possibilities were frightening. If the Orion Syndicate had gotten hold of her...she knit her brow. Christine knew it would hard for Spock to see one of his own kind a prisoner, possibly even tortured into madness. Of course, he would never show it directly. But the signs would be there; Spock's normal aloof demeanor would amplify to nearly dramatic levels, and he would suddenly move with unnaturally careful quietness. Minor details previously ignored would become of great interest. All this was intended to hide the fact that he was in pain, both from himself and everyone else. On the whole, it usually succeeded. She recognized these things, because these were things she did herself.

All at once she understood; Uhura was right, and had been right all along. All three of them—the Vulcan on Coridan, Spock, and herself—were in danger of hurting themselves by suppressing their own pain. If Doctor M'Benga was right, and the Vulcan captive had buried her memories of Vulcan, they would be like live coals covered in cool ash. When they were exposed, she would inevitably get burnt. As much as she found it difficult to admit, this was exactly what she and Spock did with inconvenient feelings: they buried them. Only, the two of them endured the constant fear of exposure.

It was true that in lab they were an extremely efficient, if silent, team. This was because had the same workplace expectations—and the same stubborn refusal to let their guard down for a moment. Spock had his Vulcan heritage to shield him, and she had her duty as a nurse. And both had allowed their masks to eclipse their true selves.

That was the way it was; there was nothing she could do about it. But the incoming patient…

Smoothing down the sheets of the biobed thoughtfully, Christine imagined the scenario that awaited the landing party. When they found her, she knew, before anything else was said the captain would try to explain who they were and why they had come. If the girl didn't go into shock then, she would when Spock revealed himself. And, because Spock wouldn't stand by as her mind tore itself to pieces, he would attempt a mind meld. In sharing his thoughts, the captive would learn to deal with the sudden trauma the way he would: bury it. Having never received the normal Vulcan training, the girl would be a time bomb.

She couldn't let that happen.

Christine breathed evenly. Suddenly, she knew what she had to do. Her duty

was clear; she was calm.

"Let the feelings leave you..."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Luknao

If you can spare a moment

From pleasure in the songs of

A thousand nightingales, look also

At the spectacle of my few words.

Ghazal couplet of Majrooh Sultanpuri, trans. Baidar Bakht and Marie-Anne Erki

"I don't care _what _the local customs are--I feel like a pile of laundry."

The doctor was struggling with a long ivory-colored sash, attempting unsuccessfully to wrap it around a tunic of the same material. Kirk laughed, and went over to help him.

"Well, Bones," he said, untangling the fabric, "we can't just waltz in there wearing our uniforms. We might as well find the nearest Syndicate boss and kick him in the shins." The captain stepped back, and looked appraisingly at their costumes. "A group of poets from Antella is respectable enough. We shouldn't have any problems."

McCoy snorted. "Famous last words."

At that moment Spock entered the briefing room, still wearing his uniform.

"We have a minor problem," he announced.

"Bing! It never fails," exclaimed McCoy.

Kirk shot him a look. "What sort of problem?"

"It appears that we will not be able to beam to the planned coordinates," he said, handing Kirk a PADD. On it was illuminated a schematic of the brothel.

"Explain."

"The brothel itself is not only impenetrable to sensor scans, but it also scrambles incoming transporter beams. We can beam out, but not in." He indicated the map on the PADD. "We have no choice but to beam down in the surrounding marketplace, and make our way in from there."

"How do we get in, then?" Bones interjected. "If they've gone so far as to scramble transporter beams, we can't expect to simply walk through the front door."

"I believe you are correct, Doctor--we shall need the aid of someone who can." He pointed to a highlighted area of the map. "I recommend beaming down to this storage room on the far end of the roadway. Between there and the brothel gate, we should be able to find a willing guide."

"You know," huffed McCoy, "I think this is one of the strangest missions I've ever been sent on."

Kirk gave a small laugh. "We'd better get going," he said, throwing his nut-brown sash over his shoulder. "It looks like this will take longer than we'd bargained for." He picked up a moss-colored bundle and tossed it to Spock. "Here, wrap yourself up in this. Meet us in the transporter room with the translators, and we'll get this over with."

* * *

"Hoy, newcomers! Be the first to lie on my new silks!"

"I once went for fifty Falangian diamonds--find out why!"

"_I _won't recite poetry at you--I sell honesty!"

"What a nightmare," murmured McCoy.

The three men had entered into a melee of sight and sound. Neither the sky nor the surrounding landscape could be seen from the street; the effect was oppressive. On either side of the road the uneven buildings pushed rowdily against each other. Parrots squawked and flitted between the uneven windows. Above the street was a long continuous canopy of cloth, colored glass and coppery metal; sticky sunlight seeped through it like honey. Along the edges of the walkway merchants of every kind buzzed and shrieked, competing with prostitutes for the custom of passersby. Above them, painted balconies framed fantastically dressed women of all descriptions. They leaned haughtily against their doorframes, or paced their verandahs shouting to the swarm of pleasure-seekers below. The men seemed to wade through a lawless miasma of flashing fabric and clashing voices, all funneling towards a dead end. There were no other streets. And there was nothing that looked like the gates to a large brothel.

McCoy shuddered. "It's as if we're trapped. Good Lord," he turned slowly in the midst of the swarm, "we _are _trapped. There's no way out!"

"Control yourself, McCoy. You know quite well there is a way out..." Spock adjusted the cloth concealing his ears, and scanned the continuous barricade of paint and plaster. "...or, rather, a way in."

"If this is what the _outside _of the brothel is like, I'm not sure I _want_ to see what's inside."

"Stop complaining, Bones, and keep your eyes open." Kirk breathed deeply. "It looks like any one of these doors could be the gate."

"Jim, this could take forever. How long can we wander around this maze before--oof!"

A young girl had run into the doctor. "If you're gonna just stand around, at least move out of the way!" she hissed, tossing her head.

"If you're going to run in the middle of a crowd, at least look where you're going!" McCoy snapped back, clutching his sash. The girl scowled up at him from beneath her thick, black hair.

"Barha, don't be so rude to the gentlemen." A sylph-like girl with bangles up to her elbows suddenly appeared at her side. Barha huffed, and shook her head; the little brass ornaments in her hair tinkled. The other girl took her arm, looking the men over. "Just because they dress like paupers doesn't mean they are," she said, winking at the doctor. He grimaced. "Maybe they're looking for something we can provide."

Kirk turned to her, suddenly attentive. "Yes...yes, in fact, you can help us. You see, we're...trying to get into the brothel."

The girls stared, as if expecting more.

"We are new to Luknao," said Spock, stepping forward, "and do not know which direction to take. Perhaps you could provide us with a means of entering the establishment."

"Ooh, there's a cold one," proclaimed a voice behind him.

Spock turned to see two young brunettes, not much older than sixteen. Arm in arm, they waved at the girls who stood before McCoy. "Barha, Lurtani!" the other one yelled. "Don't let him near! He's so stern, your dancing bells will be afraid to chime!"

"I assure you," said Spock coolly, "that is not my intention."

"Oohh!" They all giggled.

Spock seemed to rethink his statement.

"Please, girls," Kirk pleaded. "Do you think you could help us? Can any of you lead us through the gate, or at least give some kind of directions?"

"You're in Luknao," said Lurtani coyly, smoothing out her skirts. "You don't need directions."

Spock raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, she always has to be so difficult," Barha chided, pushing her blonde friend playfully. "Come on, churl-face--" She grabbed McCoy's sleeve and began dragging him down the colonnade. "If it's the gates you want, _I'll _take you there." The two brown sisters shrieked in delight and ran ahead of them.

Lurtani pushed Spock and Kirk after them. "Just look what your friend's gotten himself into," she exclaimed merrily. "Barha won't stop dragging him until they hit the Third Gate!" Her bangles chimed as she ran ahead to join the two sisters.

"Is there more than one gate?" Kirk asked, rushing to keep up—but his question was ignored.

"Lurtani! Catch Yan and Mukha, they're going too fast!" shouted Barha from McCoy's arm.

"_You're_ moving too slow!" the sisters answered gleefully, dancing ahead through the swirling crowd. They were reaching the end of the colonnade, but if there was a gate to the Luknao brothel it remained hidden.

"This is a zoo—a total zoo," McCoy whispered, as the men struggled to keep up with their guides. In the road before them, seemingly oblivious to the swirl of activity, a scarlet-draped woman was bickering loudly with what looked like a horta with legs. It was almost painful to see her beauty and its brutal ugliness side by side—yet the two screeched with the same voice. McCoy shook his head in disgust as they passed. "There's no order here. The girl we're looking for won't be kept in such a volatile place."

"Keep your chin up, Bones--we'll find her. Maybe it's different inside."

"Who's this_ girl _you're talking about?" interrupted Barha, suddenly turning her attention back to McCoy. "Careful, or I'll get jealous." Lurtani and the sisters stopped dancing and drew near, peering expectantly.

The three men looked at each other.

"Well," Kirk began carefully. "I'm not sure you'd know her."

"Try us. We know everything that goes on here."

They hadn't prepared for this. There was no telling how much the Vulcan's captors were feared in Luknao. On the one hand, being blunt might scare away their guides, or worse, blow their cover. But if they could inquire after her without seeming suspicious, the girls could give valuable information.

"Ahm...we...heard rumors..." McCoy bit his lip, and turned to the captain.

"There were stories...that somewhere in Luknao they kept a...foreigner…" Kirk had to move to avoid being run into by a passing merchant. "A girl who..." he gestured helplessly.

"An Orion!" Barha spat.

"No! No, no. Nothing even remotely close."

The girl peered at him with narrowed eyes. "We only want your custom. The Orions will take your soul."

"I don't want _anything_ to do with them," Kirk said emphatically. "We're looking for..." He turned to Spock, who was staring at something through a clear part of the awning. Kirk squinted in the direction his first officer was looking. There, barely visible through the wavy glass, loomed a citadel of white marble.

Lurtani followed the men's gaze. "Up there is where the courtesans live," she said. "The farther up you go, the less men are allowed to enter." She scrutinized Spock's intent expression. "They say that in the tallest tower, a peculiar sort of songbird is kept apart from all the rest…"

Kirk looked at her sharply. Lurtani smiled in triumph, and nodded to the sisters.

"Ohh..." Yan and Muhta were wide-eyed. "You want the Silver Lyricist!"

"The...Silver Lyricist?"

"The Lady T'Reshke!"

Spock snapped his attention to the two brunettes. The girls shrank back under his focused stare. "Fascinating," he muttered.

"What is it?" Kirk asked.

"The name seems to be derived from the word 'teresh-ka', a species of bird known for its silver plumage. They are found only on the planet Vulcan."

* * *

"Spock…" the captain said in a low voice. "Do you mean to say…?" His voice trailed off.

"Considering this new evidence, it is highly probable that the captive is not a political prisoner, as we had thought."

The girls looked at each other in confusion.

"Are you suggesting the Vulcan is a courtesan?" McCoy said weakly.

"Of course she is," Yan exclaimed, relieved to be back in familiar territory. "Isn't that what you came for?"

"Don't be silly, Yan," Lurtani chided breathlessly. "This one knows the Vulcan language—"

The three men stiffened.

"—so, obviously, these gentlemen are scholars!" She beamed up at Spock. He looked oddly pale. "They probably only came to hear her recitations!"

Yan pursed her lips. "Recitations? Is that all?" she pouted.

"Poets seeking inspiration," said Barha, almost to herself. "No politics, no lust--just art for art's sake."

"It's almost too good to be true," Lurtani sighed.

"I hate to rush things," Kirk interrupted, a bit flustered, "but if we could move on to the gates--"

"So impatient!" Barha cried, throwing up her hands. "Come on, then." She pointed towards the cul-de-sac at the end of the colonnade. "That door--do you see it? The white one, off to the left." Before they could say anything further, she began leading them towards it.

"It looks awful small for a gate," McCoy remarked, peering ahead at the patch of white standing unimpressively amid the torrent of color.

"That's on purpose," Muhta explained. "They don't want people loitering around."

Her sister ran ahead and placed her hand on the door. She turned to the others, grinning like a child as it swished open. "Visitors!" she yelled into the darkness. "Three of them."

In answer came the hoarse coughing of an old man. "Back so soon, Yan!" rasped a voice from behind the door. "Three with you, humm? Surely you've left at least one of them for your sister--" A grizzled head poked out of the doorway. "Ahh..." The old man's rheumy eyes looked the group over. "It's not just you two." Barha and Lurtani waved, and the gatekeeper nodded back at them. "But there are only three men," he wheezed, pointing. "You and Muhta will have to share again."

Kirk coughed.

"We have come to request passage through this gate," Spock said, ignoring the scrutinizing stare of the gatekeeper.

"Passage! Of course you have." The head ducked back inside. "Come on, then, girls--bring them in."

The men stepped through the small doorway and into a large atrium. Compared to the mayhem outside, the space was eerily quiet. Flowering vines spilled heavy perfume into the still air. The blooms climbed on stone columns towards a single skylight high above their heads, the only light source in the room. Someone closed the door on the street behind them with a soft click, and the seven of them advanced into the center of the round marble floor.

"Wow," McCoy marveled, turning around. "It didn't look so big from the outside."

"All the newcomers say that," said Yan, giggling. "You've seen nothing yet."

"With any luck," McCoy murmured, "we won't see more than we have to."

The anemic gatekeeper coughed again. "Your credits, sirs, and passage is yours." He gestured grandly towards the dark hallway that stretched out from the other side of the atrium.

"Ah--" The three stopped short.

"Our...our credits." Kirk tugged at his ear and looked at Spock, who raised an eyebrow at McCoy, who turned beseechingly to the girls.

Barha's eyes widened; the sisters' slender jaws fell in dismay. Lurtani bit her lip, then stepped forward with purpose to place her hand on the gatekeeper's shoulder.

"The gentlemen have already paid us--haven't they?" Lurtani said loudly, shooting a warning glance towards the other girls. Barha frowned, and then nudged the sisters, who looked mutinous. Finally they grunted in assent.

"Already paid!" exclaimed the gatekeeper, blinking. "Well...that was awfully gentlemanly of you. In that case--" He indicated the hallway with a sweep of his spindly arm. "--Luknao is at your service."

The girls shooed the men hurriedly past his bowed form. "It's a good thing he's nearly blind," Barha whispered, tugging on Spock's sleeve impatiently. "Your expressions were--"

"Terrified?" Yan blurted loudly. The other girls shushed her.

"Like you'd just narrowly escaped failing a life-or-death mission," Lurtani breathed.

"Yes, well," Kirk said, grinning as they plunged into the dark hallway, "to poets like us, you know, almost everything is life-or-death."

"Thanks, girls," McCoy said. "We owe you one."

"Careful, cheapskate," Muhta said caustically. "We might believe you mean it."

The doctor looked embarrassed.

"Never mind that," Lurtani said. "This passageway goes into the Grand Hall, and beyond that are all the all the apartments--the _second_ gate is after those, but you'll have to get through the drinking-houses--" She paused, noticing the expressions of horror creeping onto Kirk and McCoy's faces. "But perhaps," she said, her eyebrows slowly raising to mirror Spock's, "there's no need to subject you to all that." She glanced at Barha conspiratorially. "Is there?"

Barha frowned.

"_Subject_ them...!" Yan cried. "What's the point of coming to a brothel if you don't want to see the girls?"

"They already said: it's T'Reshke's poetry they want."

"Well, they won't get there just by being _nice_," she hissed, "If you hadn't duped the gatekeeper--"

"They got Lurtani's help just by being _nice_," Barha retorted. "Maybe that's not enough for you, but once you've been here a little longer..." Her voice trailed off.

There was an awkward silence.

"Listen," Lurtani said, putting a hand on Spock's sleeve. "It isn't really allowed, but there's a shortcut--a back way--that bypasses everything and goes straight to the top. It's what all the servants take."

Kirk leaned in closer. "Where does this shortcut take us?"

"Right in front of the third gate," announced Lurtani proudly. "Although, you'll have to promise to keep quiet."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," McCoy said emphatically.

"What!" Muhta hissed.

"He means to say, we promise," Kirk explained. "We also promise to take the blame if we're caught." He smiled apologetically. "It's the least we can do."

"I hope not," Yan muttered. "Let's not just stand here in the hallway--if we're going to do this, we'd better get moving."

"Alright then--" Lurtani whispered. "Follow me."

* * *

"I've never climbed so many stairs in my life," McCoy panted. "Do all the maintenance staff have to crawl up this thing every day?"

"It can't be helped. This place is designed to force people to take their time--even the porters," Barha explained from behind them. "It's a kind of metaphor for something. I don't know."

"That's perfectly ridiculous."

"You know," Lurtani mused as she climbed ahead of them, "if you'd heard enough about the Silver Lyricist to bring you here, you must keep pretty impressive company."

"Or _be_ pretty impressive company, incognito," Muhta interjected, leaning down from the flight above, "and you're just being stingy with us." She swished her gauzy skirts saucily when Lurtani shushed her.

"Why," Kirk said, "what kind of people know about her?"

"_Rich_ people, that's who," Muhta said accusingly. "People who wouldn't be _seen _with penniless poets."

"We...spent everything getting here," Kirk improvised.

"Yeah, right!" exclaimed the sisters in chorus.

"It may surprise you to know what a poet will undergo to achieve the greatest skill," came Spock's quiet voice from behind his captain.

"And what--you think hearing the poetry of Lady T'Reshke will do that for you? She probably won't even _see _you." Yan huffed derisively from beside Lurtani. "I don't know--it just seems like there are a lot better ways of using your _time_..." She stamped on the stairs petulantly. "...your _energy_..." She whirled back on the men in single file on the narrow stairwell. "...and your _resources_..." Yan rubbed her thumb and fingers together in Kirk's face. "...than to waste it all on _nothing_!" Throwing her hand in the air crossly, she flounced past Lurtani to join her sister.

"Wait, Yan..." Lurtani's bangles jangled as she reached out to stop the girl. "The scholar's right. Isn't it better to become great, even if you lose everything in the process?"

"No," Yan said bluntly. "And I don't see what's so important about poetry that you think you'll get any kind of greatness from it." She wrested herself free from Lurtani's grasp and continued up the stairwell.

But she wasn't giving up. Gathering her skirts, Lurtani followed. "Poetry is important if you _make_ it important," she insisted.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It's like love. If you think it's important, then it is."

"Love doesn't exist. It's a fantasy."

"If love's a fantasy, then everything is. We can only know what our senses tell us, after all."

Barha squeezed past McCoy and nudged Spock in the arm. "That's Lurtani getting philosophical again," she whispered to the Vulcan. "But, then, you're a poet--so you probably say these kind of things every day."

McCoy made a small choking noise.

"Hey!" Muhta had stopped in front of a small door above them. "This is it—we're here!"

Soon everyone stood clustered around the door.

"Thank goodness," Muhta said, smirking. "I was beginning to worry that Lurtani would _really _start to get carried away."

"Oh, I don't know," Kirk said, grinning at Spock. "My friend here is a big fan of philosophy." Cautiously, he opened the door. Beyond it was a silent, empty marble hallway. Smiling, he turned to the girls. "Ladies first."

The four prostitutes hung back.

"Aren't you coming with us?"

"We can't," Yan said ruefully. "We're not allowed in there, not even as servants."

"Oh—I see," Kirk said.

"This level is beyond our pay grade," Muhta sighed. "But everybody knows Madam Rahaneti; she keeps the Third Gate. She's a colossal snob. You'll have to bribe her somehow."

"With what?" McCoy asked.

"She likes power better than anything," Barha said. "You have to give her something that makes her think you're a lot more important than you really are. Which is going to be difficult, since apparently you have nothing."

"We'll just have to rely on our irresistible charm, I suppose," Kirk shrugged.

"And you won't get very far," Lurtani declared. She laughed at the captain's raised eyebrows. "Your charm got you _our _help, but believe me—it'll be lost on Rahaneti."

"There's got to be _some_ way of getting past her."

"Don't worry," she said, smiling, "I've already thought of something." Lurtani turned to look up at Spock. "Look," she said soulfully, "I don't know where you really come from, but you're a poet, and you know Vulcan, and that makes you the closest thing to a real scholar I've ever met." She sighed, and drew from the folds of her blue sash a small spherical case. For a moment she gazed at it with some regret.

"This is my favorite poem," she said finally, holding the case up to the light. "It's a Xindi epic by Enarchis. I got it from a traveling curio merchant. He said it's the only known recording of Enarchis reading his own work." Her eyes glazed over. "The merchant made sure I paid well for it."

The other girls watched reverently as she placed the poem in Spock's hand.

Lurtani smiled at Spock's knit brow. "Don't worry," she assured him, "I've got it memorized. And besides, isn't it better to spread poetry around, and not shut it away?"

"That is logical," Spock agreed. He held up the case to examine it. An eyebrow rose. "Your curio merchant seems to have been telling the truth," he said, putting a finger to the ornate clasp. It opened silently, to reveal a small sapphire-colored orb. Spock passed the case to Kirk. "I have seen recordings like this only in the possession of Xindi scholars and statesmen." He looked at Lurtani. "Are you certain you want to part with it?"

From beneath her pale hair Lurtaini beamed. "Because you ask, I wish you would keep it." She picked shyly at the glass beads her long necklace. "It's worth more to me if it helps you."

Spock stared at her with a strange expression. Behind him the other three girls shook their heads, smiling at Lurtani's idealistic Romanticism.

Kirk tucked the little case safely away. "We will see to it that the poem is put to good use."

"You know," said Muhta, eyeing the reverent way the captain placed Lurtani's gift in his sash. "Even if we don't get paid today, the satisfaction of knowing I helped you three dupe Madam Rahaneti makes every minute worth it." She looked smug. "If only I could get my hands on a few more penniless poets bent on storming the Third Gate…"

"If you keep treating your guests the way you treated us, they'll come in droves," Kirk said, smiling at her. "Thank you--all of you," Kirk said emphatically. "You've been so generous to us, and we haven't given you anything."

"Don't be so sure of that," Barha said, peering out into the hallway. "Everybody's got diamonds. Respect is what's wanting around here--and you gave it to us for free. Well, nearly free." She waited for a moment, than nodded. "Right--you'd better get moving."

"Call it an investment, if you want," Yan said, pushing the men gently out of the doorway. "When you leave this place, maybe you'll put us in one of your poems, and then everyone will know how we helped you."

"Oh--I'd love to be in a poem," Lurtani breathed.

"The next one I write," Kirk said, backing out of the doorway, "you all will be in it. That's a promise."

The girls waved as the three men moved out into the room. "Remember us, scholars!" Lurtani whispered after them as she gently closed the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: T'Reshke

*

*

_Dear reader:_

This chapter's poem preface is in musical form. I strongly encourage you to follow this link, where you will find a snippet of the film _Umrao Jaan_, starring Rekha as the title character. She dances to a classical ghazal, an Urdu poem. (The film, of course, is not mine.)

.com/watch?v=LeMzwxFVVOA&feature=related

Remember this tune.

*

*

*

Madam Rahaneti was proving a formidable obstacle.

"Why should I give any attention to you?" the Madam leered. She fingered the stiff golden fringe on her shawl viciously. The heavy marble gates behind her were intricately carved in bas-relief, and gilded with silver; the effect was imposing. "You are completely unknown here. I see nothing to indicate stature or wealth."

McCoy opened his mouth to protest, but Kirk shook his head to quiet him. Under Madam Rahaneti's imperious glare, he began to ascend the marble steps. Kirk smiled, as he knew how; the Madam's glare became a suspicious scowl. He leaned over to whisper in the gatekeeper's ear. "Sometimes—" he murmured, "—showy clothes and fancy words are no substitute for the real thing." She scrutinized him from the corner of her eye. "Don't be deceived by appearances." Into her hand he slipped Lurtani's poem.

The lady's eyes widened as she gripped the little orb. "Xindi craft," she mouthed to herself. "I believe," she said slowly, "I'm beginning to understand this proverb." The lady peered past him at McCoy's indignant grimace, then fixed upon Spock's aristocratic bearing.

The Vulcan met her stare with perfect composure. For a moment, she seemed uncertain.

"Perhaps," she purred, suddenly acquiescent. "I've jumped to conclusions too hastily. The Third Gate is honored to accommodate you." With a sweep of her silk-draped arm she indicated the opening silver-encrusted doors. Kirk inclined his head politely, and led the small party forward.

"'The real thing', captain?" Spock asked quietly as they sped through the gate. "What is that, exactly?"

"I don't know," Kirk chuckled, casting a glance back over his shoulder. The lady gatekeeper was gone. "It was the first thing that came to mind."

"It hardly matters, anyway," the doctor said triumphantly. "The point is, it worked!"

As the heavy marble doors ground to a close, the three men advanced into the empty courtyard. It was bright, but not in the way that the market had been. They looked up.

"Finally—" McCoy exclaimed, "some sun!" Shielding his eyes, he turned his face to the brilliant blue above them. No other buildings could be seen rising over the white stone that lined the perimeter; their guides had led them to the highest point in the citadel. "Look--" McCoy pointed towards the concave tower before them. "That must be the tower we saw from outside the first gate."

The courtyard was blissfully hushed. Smooth stone paths radiated from a central cluster of stately trees, from which could be heard the soft burble of a small fountain. Raised beds of unpolished marble held silvery-green herbs, slender blue-tinted bushes, and all manner of cool-hued plant curiosities.

"There are specimens here from all over the galaxy," Spock said, kneeling onto a conscientiously placed bench to examine the bed. From it spilled thousands of delicate white flowers; each tiny blossom seemed to demand quietness. "Some, in fact, which I have seen only in our ship's database."

"I must admit," said the captain, "this isn't quite what I had expected." He breathed deeply. Everything smelled of jasmine and fresh spring water.

Enclosing the garden was a double circle of white marble columns. These supported a portico, which was discreetly veiled by lush climbing vines. The base of the tower curved along with the edge of the courtyard. It loomed impressively opposite the gate behind them. Over the side of the portico was draped someone's forgotten shawl; the gauzy fabric moved gently with the muted breeze.

"It's amazing that a place this serene can be right in the center of all that madness," said Kirk, turning around to take in the entire scene. He stopped when he spotted the shawl. "Do you think that's hers?"

"It could well be," Spock said.

"Well, Jim, maybe this won't turn out to be a wild goose chase after all."

"No--if I remember correctly, Bones, we were chasing a silver bird."

McCoy chuckled. "H'm, that's right...Jim, look!"

From within one of the lacy bushes sprang a flash of silver; it flew towards the center of the garden, and alighted on the edge of the fountain.

"It appears they have imported a flock of teresh-ka," Spock said as a chorus of soft warbles joined the bird. "For aesthetic purposes, it would seem."

"You say that as if there was something wrong with it," Kirk said, smiling. "I think they fit in rather nicely."

"In Vulcan ecology, the teresh-ka is similar to your Earth pigeons," Spock said. "They are commonplace and generally considered pests. Keeping teresh-ka in a formal garden is akin to planting dandelions."

"Well, that doesn't mean they can't be considered beautiful," McCoy argued, watching the silver birds flit above them. "Earth doves are really just white pigeons, but people think of them as symbols of beauty and peace."

Spock seemed to consider this.

Suddenly from the portico above them came the sound of a door creaking. From behind the curtains of vines could be seen the vague outline of a small group. One of the ladies in the retinue stopped to collect the shawl hanging over the balcony; for a moment her face was visible through the cascade of flowers. As she turned to give the fabric to an attendant, her veil slipped.

Kirk started. "That's her."

They rushed towards the staircase at the far end of the garden.

***

By the time they made it onto the portico, the retinue had already disappeared into a gilded door that led into the tower. Motioning the others to be quiet, Kirk cautiously pushed it open.

The garden had been serene, but this room was elegance itself. Round windows were adorned with fine silk tapestries, artfully arranged. Slender garlands of jasmine wound delicately about the perimeter of the circular room. Where the walls were bare, the exquisite marble was its own decoration. If it hadn't been for the presence of the Madam, there would have been nothing to indicate that this was part of a brothel.

Many sumptuous cushions lined the curved wall; Madam Rahaneti reclined on one of them. A company of richly dressed patrons occupied the others. Before the men could speak a word, Rahaneti beckoned for them to seat themselves with the others.

Spock and McCoy looked to their captain. He frowned, and then moved forward to claim one of the cushions. His first officer and CMO followed, if tentatively. They sat near the end of the semi-circle of men; across the way, Madam Rahaneti simpered at them.

"What have we gotten ourselves into?" McCoy whispered.

"I don't know," Kirk said, frowning. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see."

All around them the patrons spoke in hushed tones; bowls of exotically prepared fruit were passed, and no one smoked. Not all were Coridian natives, yet everyone seemed to know everyone else. Despite this, it was clear that all attention rested on a small dais before a hallway that reached back into the tower. The dais was screened by several thicknesses of sheer cloth of the purest white; beside it, a group of musicians were tuning their instruments.

"She's probably behind that cloth," the doctor said, eyeing the blue embroidery on its hem.

"We should make certain of that before taking any action," Spock murmured.

Kirk nodded, peering at the curtain as if trying to see through it.

Suddenly from behind the cloth came a soft chiming, as if a multitude of tiny bells had decided to group together and walk. The chiming ceased, and the curtain was drawn aside. There, seated upon the dais, was the courtesan T'Reshke.

She was the image of taste and demure grace. Intricate jewelry distracted the eye where cloth did not cover her skin. Though bowed, her face seemed to glow. Tiny diamonds scattered tastefully over her veil reflected tiny pinpoints of light that danced on the ceiling; it was as if the room was her universe, and she had created the stars.

"That's our girl, all right," McCoy whispered, awestruck. Spock moved to speak to her, but Kirk held him back.

"Wait," he said in an undertone. "Let's see what state she's in first."

Then the first notes came out of her cinnamon-colored mouth, and the men were silent.

_Va'va'ashiv eit'jae—ne'shau utvau__._

Kirk and McCoy scrambled to adjust their translators. "Don't bother," whispered a gentleman next to the doctor. "They won't work here. It's to prevent recordings from modified translators." The men turned to Spock, who sat between them. The Vulcan's face was granite.

Va'va'ashiv eit'jae—ne'shau utvau.

"Well?" McCoy stared at Spock impatiently. But she had already resumed.

_Va'va'ashiv du halishau …_

Her voice encompassed the whole room; even the musicians seemed to be merely an extension of her voice.

_Va'va'ashiv du halishau—satau s'utvau_

As the courtesan rose with the rhythm of the tabla drums, the faces of her audience rose with her. Spock seemed determined not to look away.

_Va'va'ashiv eit'jae—ne'shau utvau._

_Va'va'ashiv du halishau—satau s'utvau__._

"Spock, what is she saying?" Kirk whispered, watching as she began to dance.

"_Again and again_," he began, "_I beg of you: welcome reason_." He breathed once. "_Again and again, you demand: diverge from reason_." His eyes were locked grimly on the courtesan's graceful, bell-adorned ankles. "This is a mockery of Vulcan culture."

"Look, Spock," McCoy whispered gleefully, "I don't know what your definition of dignified is, but this—" he nodded at T'Reshke's precise hand movements, "—is _class_."

"Fortunately, my definition differs greatly from yours."

Kirk, the image of attentiveness, shushed the two men as the Vulcan began her second couplet.

_Kup-tenah uralaun-lara, kup-tenah uralaun__…_

…_Ah…_

_Kup-tenah uralaun-lara__t'praskul'es uf__…t'praskul'es uf?_

She stopped before an opulently dressed Coridian, who seemed to understand her words. From his expression, it was obvious he would do anything to answer favorably whatever question she had just asked.

Ni, toglantau uralaun…

She rose from her seated position.

_Ni, toglantau uralaun shetau utvau__._

The Coridian smiled and shook his head in wonder. He raised a hand in salute as she moved away.

_Ni, toglantau uralaun shetau utvau__._

_Va'va'ashiv eit'jae—ne'shau utvau._

Kirk and McCoy nudged Spock at the same time.

"_How can one blame…_" He seemed to search for the right word. _"…A songbird of flamboyance? Thus, witness my song become reason_." His eyebrow raised stiffly. "_Yet again I beg of you: welcome reason_."

"Wow," Kirk breathed appreciatively. "She's good."

In a whirl of silver and crystal she spun the perimeter of the room. The hem of her skirt just barely brushed the cushions where her audience sat transfixed. It was difficult to tell whether this was on purpose, for no hint of mischievousness crossed her face. Though, of course, as a courtesan all her actions were on purpose.

_Lau-klopau na'wafu lof heh dor…na'wafu…_

_Na'wafu lof heh dor…_

_Lau-klopau na'wafu lof heh dor na'rikwonik-sanosh_

She suddenly pointed to a gentleman who had been laughing quietly with his neighbor as they poured themselves some wine. He started, like one caught in a guilty act; then, with a smile, he raised his glass to her.

_Hi ak fihal-tor na'psthan…_

_Hi ak fihal-tor na'psthan ruhm au na'utvau_

_Hi ak fihal-tor na'psthan ruhm au na'utvau_

Va'va'ashiv eit'jae—ne'shau utvau

"Such sentiments seem rather out of place here, I think," Spock said severely.

"What sentiments?"

"_One might decide to deny purpose and honor for fleeting pleasure,_" he translated, "_But soon even they will embark to search for reason. Once more I beg of you: welcome reason."_ He paused to look round at the gentlemen who sat transfixed beside them. "I find it unlikely that these men will follow her advice."

"Such bitterness!" Kirk exclaimed in an undertone, grinning mischievously. "It's hardly like you, Spock."

The Vulcan opened his mouth to defend himself, when T'Reshke herself appeared before him.

_Nufau du…_

She rose one graceful eyebrow, then the other. Spock stared, nonplussed.

_Nufau du nash-tupa_

From across the room, the Madam nodded smugly in approval.

_Nufau du nash-tupa – __wuh-rak nelau fus-zherka_

Ever so slightly, his face stiffened. Noticing this, the courtesan's eyes seemed to grow brighter. She prepared for the final line.

_Ri puk svi'ozhika eh ashaya_

_Ri puk svi'ozhika eh ashaya - kuv du—_

She suddenly pointed at him; Kirk and McCoy jumped.

—_veshtau utvau_

_Ri puk svi'ozhika eh ashaya - kuv du veshtau utvau_

_Va'va'ashiv eit'jae: Ne'shau utvau_

_Va'va'ashiv…_

"What did she say to you?"

_Va'va'ashiv…_

"Spock, you look like you've seen a ghost."

_Va'va'ashiv du halishau—satau s'utvau_

He bowed his head as she twirled away. The two men on either side of him gave up trying to get a translation.

_Satau s'utvau_

_Satau s'utvau_

She came to rest in the center of the room. As the last notes died away, Kirk and McCoy moved to applaud.

Spock quickly reached out to stop them.

"What…?" The captain was surprised. "Why not?"

"Did she bother you that much?" McCoy hissed.

"Nothing of the kind." There was a strange, distant look in his eyes. Then, he blinked once, as if coming out of a reverie. "This would be an inopportune moment," he explained in an undertone, "to commit a faux-pas."

The two men looked about them. "Ah," Kirk said. "I see."

It seemed that clapping was out of fashion in Luknao. Rather than applauding, the men showered T'Reshke with a torrent of praise. Each exclamation was more grandiose than the last. But if T'Reshke was flattered by any of these compliments, she gave no sign. She drew her veil over her face, and bowed demurely. Finally she bowed in salute to the Madam. Rahaneti acknowledged her imperiously, as a rich woman will when she knows she possesses a priceless treasure. The courtesan turned to leave.

"Jim, she'll get away," McCoy whispered urgently as she returned to the dais.

"Wait," the captain ordered. "We need to make sure we know what we're doing. This…isn't what we had expected." He watched T'Reshke slowly recede into the passageway, until the white curtain fluttered down and she was hidden from view. "She won't go too far."

At that moment Madam Rahaneti rose from her cushion. "Gentlemen." She raised a hand, and the room quieted. "If you would come into the garden, I have arranged for fruits and pastries to be brought from Krios Prime." There was a murmur of appreciation. "Lady T'Reshke well join us presently, along with my daughters, Aamra and Nargis." She smiled graciously as her guests filed past, then followed them out into the sunshine.

Soon Kirk, Spock, and McCoy were the only ones left in the room. They looked at one another.

"So." McCoy chewed on his lip. "How do we handle this?"

"We inform the captive of our orders," Spock said bluntly. "Upon hearing our intent to return her to Vulcan, she will undoubtedly allow us to escort her to the Enterprise."

"Just like that, huh?" McCoy said. "And what if she doesn't want to come with us?"

"She is Vulcan. She will not prefer…this…over her native world." His voice was even and sure. No tremor, no movement that would betray the slightest hint of agitation crossed his placid features. And yet, the distant look had not left his face.

"I don't know, Spock," Kirk said, peering curiously at him. "She didn't seem to act much like a captive." He frowned. Something was eating at his first officer. He could tell by the way Spock seemed to stare at nothing. He knew, too, that there was no way to ask what was bothering him. "But you are right in one respect—we must tell her who we are, and why we're here." He shrugged. "Since we don't know how she'll respond, that's the best we can do."

"Then, since you have made up your minds—" The fine curtain was drawn aside. "—do not hesitate; tell me all."

The three men leapt to their feet.

T'Reshke stood at the dais. When she received no answer, she let the cloth fall from her hand. The bells on her feet chimed softly as she stepped towards them.

Inexplicably, Kirk caught _himself_ feeling guilty for eavesdropping. He shook it off. "You heard all that we said?"

"I did," she answered. "Though I must confess," she said, turning to Spock, "I find your certainty of my desire to leave for Vulcan puzzling."

"In what way?" He stood with his hands behind his back.

"I have never been to Vulcan, and none from that world have set foot here. I am bound to this place." She walked to the window, and gazed out onto the vast Coridian desert that stretched beyond the edge of the citadel below. "What reason could I possibly have to leave?"

"It doesn't bother you," Kirk said, with some caution, "That we speak of…_returning _you to Vulcan, of the fact that you are considered a captive…?"

She lowered her lashes. "Many consider my way of life to be one of captivity."

"But, don't you want to know who gave us those orders?" McCoy hazarded.

"Orders?" She turned back from the window to face them. There was a brief silence. "Then, you are Starfleet."

Kirk breathed. "Yes," he said slowly, "and I am Captain James Kirk, of the starship Enterprise, acting on behalf of the Vulcan High Command."

"The Vulcan High Command…?"

"…who wish to see you returned to your homeland, the place of your birth." Spock was clearly focused now. When T'Reshke turned to him, he stared firmly into her widening eyes.

"And you," she said quietly, "You say that you have come from Vulcan to claim me?"

Spock blinked. "I _am_ Vulcan," he affirmed. "But I have not come from my home world directly. I, too, serve aboard the Enterprise, in the capacity of science officer." He paused, noticing the way T'Reshke was suddenly staring at him.

"You are Vulcan?" She seemed to speak more to herself than to Spock. The large opal that lay on her chest began to rise and fall at an increasing rate.

"Yes," he said, with some caution. "But it is the Vulcan High Command, and not myself, that claims you."

"Claims her!" shrieked a voice. A shadow had fallen across the doorway; it was the Madam.

Kirk groaned.

"Don't listen to them, T'Reshke," she commanded. Her eyes seemed to shoot sparks. "I _knew_ there was something dishonest about you three. I should never have doubted my instincts!" Madam Rahaneti advanced on them menacingly, flanked by her two daughters. "Now, get out of my brothel!"

"Please, Ma'am, allow us to explain. Our admiral—"

"—wants to rob me of what is rightfully mine!" She clutched T'Reshke's arm possessively; the girl offered no resistance. "You cannot bully me into letting you carry her off!"

"We intend to escort her to Vulcan, from which she was forcibly taken," Spock said.

Rahaneti hissed at his last words. "Under what premise?"

Spock ignored the doctor's cautionary look. "That at the age of four, this girl was kidnapped from her home on Vulcan and brought here illegally."

T'Reshke seemed to weaken under the Madam's grip. There was a scuffle as the two sisters rushed to help their mother support her.

"Sister, don't believe them," whispered Aamra, grabbing at her shoulder. "They only want to take you for themselves!" She shot a desperate look at Nargis, who immediately fled to get help.

Kirk ran after her. Catching her by the waist, he struggled to keep her in his grip. The slippery silk of her veil and layered dress made it hard to keep a good hold; she flailed at him viciously. Too late, Kirk realized he couldn't bring himself to strike her. "Spock," he begged, as she scratched at his face. "Help me out here!"

In a moment his first officer had put a hand deftly behind her neck, and she collapsed in the captain's arms.

Aamra screamed. "You've killed her!"

"I have done no such thing," Spock said, shutting the door as Kirk laid the girl gently on the carpet. "She is merely unconscious."

T'Reshke had watched this performance in stunned silence. Her eyes were now glazed over. "I have seen this before…" she muttered.

But her words went unnoticed. In their rage at Spock's use of the nerve pinch, Madam Rahaneti and her daughter released T'Reshke to fly in fury at Nargis' attackers.

McCoy stood alone beside the courtesan. "My God," McCoy breathed in a hushed tone, watching as the she sank to the floor. "She's remembering!" He rushed to where Kirk and Spock were struggling with the women. "Spock, help her!" He took over the task of pinning Aamra's arms behind her back. "Do whatever you have to do—just keep her conscious!"

Spock moved to kneel beside the courtesan.

She lifted her eyes to him. "I don't understand…" T'Reshke seemed to be fading fast. "I remember a man…" She put a hand to her neck, recalling the neck pinch. "…he was trying to protect me."

"Hush, child," the Madam cried desperately, struggling to break free. "It's all in your head!"

"In my head," she murmured. Her eyelids fluttered.

"T'Reshke, listen to me," Spock said, grasping her by the shoulders. "Whatever you remember, it is past. Concentrate on what is here, now." It seemed to him as though she stared at him through a thick haze.

"Th'at…th'at sa-mekh…" She reached a silk-sheathed arm towards Spock, who caught it steadily. She looked down at the hand grasping her wrist, and her eyes seemed to regain their focus. "For a moment, I thought I saw my father," she said in a low voice. The blood drained from her copper-colored skin. It appeared that her whole body was trying to shut down.

Spock felt her arm go limp in his grip.

"What is happening to me?" she whispered. Her eyes began to roll back in her head.

Spock gently leaned her against the dais. His brow knit with concern. It was obvious that T'Reshke was completely unprepared for the sudden revival of her memories. For most Vulcans, the control of past trauma was trivial, a regular part of normal t'san s'at training. The t'san s'at was a lifelong process—and all he had were a few seconds. Spock realized that all his training was useless to help her, unless he could intervene. After a moment's reflection, he reached out a hand towards her temple.

"Don't you—keep your hands away from her!" sputtered Rahaneti. She tried to kick at Kirk, but was hindered by her many layers of thick, rich silk.

Carefully, he moved aside the hem of her veil.

At that very moment the door burst open with a crash. Kirk and McCoy jumped—even the women stopped shrieking. There, silhouetted by the cold light that streamed about her, stood a solitary woman in blonde and blue.

"Spock," she said in a voice that resounded with purpose and clarity, "if you would remove your hand from my patient's temple, I will take over from here."


	4. Chapter 4

A note to the reader:

This chapter has been long in coming. My temptation is to apologize for my inability to portray as rich a picture as exists in my mind—but there is no point in that, is there?

Instead, allow your own imagination to enfold what I have written here, and let no detail escape your notice. To paraphrase the wisdom of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, great issues may hang from a bootlace, and the most extraordinary action may depend on a single hairpin.

If you find your imagination in need of some aid, turn to the visual panacea of YouTube: type the words "pakeezah chalte chalte" into the search bar, and select the second video that appears. No translation is necessary. In this business, emotion and an understanding of its subtleties is all that you require.

Chapter 4: The Lady With The Lamp

*

_"A nurse should do nothing but nurse."_ --Notes on Nursing_, _Florence Nightingale

*

*

The doctor had given her an order.

"Hold down the fort," he had told her. "We could come back with anything."

And she had obeyed. In sickbay, the doctor's word is law. A nurse does what she is told—no questions asked. Christine understood this. More than that, she had come to live by it.

There were things in her life she did not care to remember. There were feelings she was afraid to feel. But when McCoy gave her an order, that was all she needed to think about. On duty, she was no longer Christine. She was Nurse Chapel, and her only problems were those that the doctor gave her.

But not this time.

Christine stood in silence beside the biobed she had prepared, her fingertips resting lightly on the restraints. It was only a _possibility _that Spock would attempt a mind-meld. It was a feeling, nothing more. There was no way to rationally prove it would happen. And yet—inexplicably, frustratingly—she _knew._

Over and over the scenarios played out in her mind—each one ended the same. First the girl would go into shock, as M'Benga had predicted. Each minute that passed would be crucial, and Spock would know it. His thought process would be brief and concise: if the root problem was her lack of training, then his first action should address that lack. The logical conclusion would be to execute a mind-meld. In the transference of thought, Spock's training would overlay whatever methods the girl had developed on her own to deal with emotion. She could then control herself, and the problem would be solved. There would be no time to think of the long-term consequences.

But Christine had already taken the consequences into consideration. For the same reason she could predict Spock's train of thought, she knew that the meld would be, at best, a temporary fix. At worst, the Vulcan prisoner would become what Christine herself feared becoming: an isolated, superfluous automaton. From the meld, the girl would only learn to do consciously what she most likely had done naturally all along: bury her memories whole. The pain would not go away. And if she never faced those memories again, if each new feeling was stifled in the same way, eventually her identity would be lost. Her very katra, thus compartmentalized and hidden away in bits and pieces, could dissolve in time.

It wasn't that Vulcan training inherently did this—in fact, it was designed to do the exact opposite. The danger was in Spock's unique perspective, and what it could do to the girl in those few, crucial moments.

Everyone knew that Spock was ashamed of his Earth blood, even if no one voiced it aloud. Only Christine fully appreciated what that meant. If any other Vulcan trained at Spock's level had some memory to get rid of, they got rid of it. It would literally be carefully erased from their minds. But Spock's guilt—perhaps nameless, perhaps even unnecessary—impeded that process. His very morality forbade it. He couldn't feel it, he couldn't get rid of it—so it stayed, buried, dormant. Christine appreciated it, because her humanity gave her no choice but to do the same.

When Doctor M'Benga predicted the captive would react adversely upon being found, there was every reason to believe him. Christine knew her reasons were less reliable. Perhaps it was because she felt professionally responsible for the girl's well being. Or perhaps it was something more personal. If the captive could come to terms with her emotions without resorting to suppression, there was hope that she and Spock could do the same.

Either way, it didn't matter. The conclusion was the same. Her duty was to her patient, and nothing—not even the doctor's orders—was above that.

There had to be some way to prevent the mind-meld. The minutes ticked by as Christine racked her brains for a solution. With each hour that passed, the chances grew more and more remote that she would reach her patient before Spock did.

Across the room, Doctor M'Benga sat drumming his fingers against the computer console. She looked over at him. Obviously, he too had grown impatient. Chewing on the end of a pen, he scrolled restlessly through Vulcan medical journals. Christine's eyes narrowed. If ever he were to be receptive to the idea of intercepting the landing party, it would be now.

She wasted no time.

"Doctor M'Benga, may I have a word with you?"

He nodded without looking up from the console. "What do you need?"

She paused only for a second. "I request that you or someone from your team intercept the landing party, sir."

"Intercept…?" The doctor stopped chewing on his pen. "What for? All they have to do is find the captive and bring her up." He waved her off, and turned back to the screen. "I'm sure they have everything under control."

"With all due respect, Sir, I'm not sure we can count on that." Her crisp voice made the doctor pause. "I have reason to believe that, upon failing to maintain a lucid state in the captive, it is highly probable that Mr. Spock will attempt a mind-meld."

"Okay," he said, shrugging. "I'll admit it's a possibility. But not an especially dangerous one—do you really think it warrants an intervention?"

Christine paused. It was one thing to examine the scenarios in her mind; it was quite another to speak her thoughts aloud. She chose her words carefully. "A Vulcan completely devoid of the customary training—"

"That was speculation, Nurse."

"But you think it very likely."

He breathed deeply. "Yes."

"With such a lack of training, the captive could react adversely to a mind-meld."

"Humans usually don't. What makes you think she would?"

"She's not human."

M'Benga huffed.

"Regardless of species, doctor, an individual in a state of traumatic shock is in no position to receive a mind-meld. If the circumstances are as we expect, neither is the captive." Stopping herself, she noticed she was leaning forward on the biobed, almost pleading with the doctor. She straightened. "The artificial transference of thought while she is not of a mind to receive it could be terribly detrimental."

M'Benga sighed. "This is all just speculation, Nurse," he said, placing his fingertips together. "Ifs and maybes don't constitute a…reinterpretation of duty."

Christine pursed her lips. "You spent a lot of time on Vulcan, didn't you?"

"Yes. I interned there for a while."

"Then you know it's imperative that we take every precaution where both emotional trauma and a lack of training are concerned."

The doctor peered at Nurse Chapel. She was standing, he noticed, at her customary place by the biobed where the light was softest on her features. But at this moment, nothing about her looked soft. Her entire aspect was changed. In place of the gentle nurse he was accustomed to, there now stood before him someone not to be reckoned with—someone who knew what she was talking about. "Certainly, melding is not to be taken lightly," he murmured. "The lack of training doesn't concern me much, but that along with a state of traumatic shock…"

Christine didn't wait for him to finish the thought. "That girl's mind could be permanently damaged on account of our negligence. If there's a chance that we could prevent that from happening, we should take it."

M'Benga sank back in his chair. He seemed to consider it.

Christine stepped towards him from the biobed. "In Doctor McCoy's absence, you are Chief Medical Officer. You have the authority to intervene if you deem it appropriate."

"Hm." M'Benga frowned, watching her advance. "That's true."

"When the landing party returns, the captive will be your charge."

He chewed on his lip. "We can't beam down."

"We'll use a shuttle."

"We have no way of knowing where they are."

"We'll trace them once we pass through the interference field."

"Nurse Chapel, if we do this…" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head.

Christine stiffened. "Yes, Doctor?"

He looked up at her sharply. "As her nurse, you are now serving under my command. If we do this, you should be the one to go."

She blinked. "Sir?"

"I did my most important training on Vulcan, as you know." He rose from his seat, and began to pace before the biobeds. "Consequentially, when I treat her it will be as a Vulcan. Many Vulcan medical procedures rely on mental cooperation from the patient. You remember Spock's healing state."

"I do."

"Well, the girl probably won't be able to do that. If you're right, and she is too traumatized to receive a mind-meld, then I certainly won't be any use to her. It would be like throwing her memories right in her face, and telling her to use them as if she knew how." He turned to Christine. "You are totally unconnected to Vulcan, and so you should be the one to bring her back."

Somewhere in her mind, the phrase "unconnected to Vulcan" lodged itself; at the moment, she was too focused to give it any thought. "Then you're authorizing me to intercept the landing party?"

"I'm ordering you to bring my patient to me conscious and calm. Whatever you need to do to make that happen, I authorize you to do it."

"Yes, Sir."

"I will assume your post. When you return successful, I'll be waiting here." He gave a small smile. "Good luck."

She nearly ran out of sickbay.

* * *

"Computer, scan the area for Vulcan life signs."

She had passed through the boundary of the interference field, and was flying low towards Luknao from the West. Not ten meters beneath the craft stretched the flat Coridan desert. Behind her loomed the setting sun; it seemed to melt rather than set into the barren horizon.

She laid a hand on the shuttlecraft's window. Ahead lay the citadel of Luknao; it was every bit as ostentatious as she'd imagined. The pleasure fortress erupted out of the desert before her, expanding threateningly to fill the window as she hurtled towards it. In the sunset the walls and towers appeared to be made of light the colors of tangerines and blood. It seemed to Christine that, at any moment, the citadel would be revealed as a mirage, and shimmer away until nothing but the desert remained.

"Quarry located," the computer barked, breaking her out of her reverie.

"Bring up a map." Christine bent over one of the screens. Two red dots appeared; they could only represent Spock and the captive. Both appeared to be at the base of a tower, on the same side of the citadel that she now approached. "Find a secluded place accessible by the Vulcans' current location," she commanded, "and land there."

She straightened to look again through the craft window. Rising like a challenge into the grey sky, the tower of Luknao loomed dead ahead of the shuttle.

"Then this is her prison," Chapel murmured. As the shuttle drew nearer, her hard stare traveled over the opulent masonry, the glittering mirrored tiles that lined the windows, the style so delicately aloof from the rest of the brothel…

She frowned. _What an odd place to keep a prisoner,_ she thought, peering at the tower. She turned back to the map, wherethe two dots flashed patiently. Surrounding them were words like "courtyard", "garden", and "theatre", all in open spaces and unenclosed corridors. _In fact, _she thought, scanning the area as her vessel quietly passed overhead, _this looks like a poor hiding place altogether. A retreat for the cultured elite, perhaps, but not for kidnappers…_

The shuttle descended upon the lawn of an outdoor amphitheater separated from the garden by a high wall. As the shuttle touched ground, she transferred the map to her tricorder. _That must be her on the map_, she thought, _yet why would she be kept out in the open like that? Unless her captors didn't care who saw her…_

All at once, she understood.

"Of course," she breathed. "Of course they don't care. They trust everyone who comes here, because they come here to be entertained." The tower loomed. "My patient is a courtesan."

The shuttle door opened, staining everything inside with the dying sunlight. _Very well, _she thought, marching onto the lawn. _It hardly matters. Perhaps it'll even make my job a little easier. _Then she thought of the way the landing party must have found her—how Spock must have found her—and allowed herself a small smile.

For a few seconds she stood by the shuttle facing the wall with her tricorder, trying to determine the quickest route to her patient. Her map showed a cluster of life forms in the garden's center—right in her way. Christine knew that if she were apprehended, all her effort would be wasted. _Perhaps_, she thought, _if I stayed close to the wall…_

As she stood examining the map, the two red dots representing Spock and her patient moved closer together. Her heart jumped. _This could be it, _she thought. _I've run out of time. _ Gritting her teeth, she ran for the doorway that led into the garden.

Her boots padded softly against the stone pavement. One hand grazed the garden wall, while the other clutched the tricorder. Christine could see the life forms—_patrons, _she thought—gathered about a fountain in the center of the courtyard. She looked up. There, in the middle of the portico that spanned the garden's western perimeter, was the door she had to reach. Its back was to the sun; in the twilight, the area beneath the portico was dark. She slid towards it. Moving fast, she slung the tricorder behind her and ran up the curving stairway.

Suddenly Christine could hear the muffled shriek of an older woman from behind the gilt door. Racing towards it, she caught only the last few words: "…keep your hands away from her!"

_That's it, _she thought in despair. _I'm too late!_ Fearing the worst, she burst through the door.

There, kneeling beside what could only have been the captive, was Spock. He turned to look at Christine—and she knew she had only just made it in time.

"Spock," she said in a voice that resounded with purpose and clarity, "if you would remove your hand from my patient's temple, I will take over from here."

* * *

It was, to put it succinctly, an unexpected interruption.

Spock found he didn't quite know what to do. Frozen, he looked over at the captain.

"Perhaps," Kirk said, addressing Christine, "you'd…care to explain yourself?" The captain made a strange figure, still pinning the arms of a gaping Madam Rahaneti. Beside him, McCoy held her daughter Aamra fast. On seeing the nurse's uniform, both women seemed to have lost all desire to resist.

"I'm here to assume responsibility for the patient," Christine answered crisply, "by order of Dr. M'Benga."

"M'Benga?" McCoy barked. "That meddling prig. Always thinks he knows best."

Spock observed Chapel bite her lip at this accusation; he wondered why. "According to regulations, Captain," he said, watching her, "If what she says is true, Nurse Chapel is in order."

"I know," Kirk said, frowning. Then Rahateti resumed struggling, and he decided not to further complicate things. "Alright, then. Carry on, Nurse."

Spock backed away from T'Reshke. In a few swift seconds, Nurse Chapel had replaced him by her side. "Spock," she said quietly, "would you help McCoy and the captain calm those ladies?"

Without answering, he rushed to aid Kirk and McCoy.

"Don't even _think_ about putting me out," Rahaneti snarled. She turned to glare at Christine kneeling beside her charge. She sniffed haughtily. "I can see that you really are Starfleet. Very well—it makes no difference. She is my property, and you can't take her away from me!"

"In point of fact, Madam," Spock said, "we must. The very people responsible for your planet's admission into the Federation have ordered us to retrieve her. We are not free to do otherwise."

"Please, Ma'am," McCoy appealed, trying to lead a stupefied Aamra to a cushion. "Your _property_ is suffering. We're only trying to help her."

The Madam glared at Spock. "She wasn't suffering before _you_ came," she snapped. "Hasn't it occurred to you that she might _like_ it here? I didn't kidnap her. When I bought her it was a mercy." She spat on the ground at his feet. "That's what I think of your precious High Command," she said. "They're the ones you should blame, not me. I only buy—I don't sell."

Spock blinked. It wasn't just the inherent illogic of the statement that concerned him. Rahaneti was implying that the Vulcan High Command was responsible for T'Reshke's capture and sale. This was unthinkable.

_No, _he corrected himself, _not unthinkable—merely implausible. _A host of unsavory possibilities assailed his mind. _If we have been deceived…_

"Look, Mother," Aamra said tremulously, breaking his train of thought. "She's shaking."

Everyone turned to see T'Reshke trembling against the dais. Next to Nurse Chapel, she appeared almost fragile. The nurse was holding her firmly by the shoulders; her voice was low and steady.

Watching them, Spock frowned. A mind-meld would have been much more efficient, he knew. He also knew that, if he had been successful, any memory concerning her kidnapping would be lost. If he understood Rahaneti's accusation correctly, that could mean something far more serious than a troop of slavers.

He recalled the way Chapel had burst into the room, at the very moment he had reached out to begin the meld. "Remove your hand from my patient's temple," she had said—as if she knew what he was about to do. _ Is that what the nurse was sent do—prevent a meld from occurring? If so… _He glanced at Rahaneti. _Is it possible that M'Benga—or Chapel—expects her memory to contain valuable information?_ He resolved to make it a priority to find out.

The Madam and her daughter were crouched together by Nargis' supine form, watching the two women with apprehension. It was clear Rahaneti was uncomfortable not being in control of the situation, but she had the sense not to interfere.

"What's happening, Bones?" Kirk said in an undertone.

"It's like a classic human panic attack," McCoy said, marveling. "Look at how her eyes are moving. Difficulty breathing, trembling—if I wasn't so occupied with you, young lady…" He glared accusingly at Aamra. "…I might have recognized it sooner."

"But, Bones," Kirk interjected, "she's not human, she's Vulcan. Are you sure Chapel knows what she's doing?"

The doctor sighed, and crossed his arms. "M'Benga seems to think she does—and he's the one running this show, not me."

"Even so, Doctor," Spock said in an undertone, "these circumstances are very likely out of the range of his experience. Can we be certain his judgment is any better than ours in this instance?"

McCoy's brow furrowed as he stared at the nurse. Spock recognized it as the same grave stare he often received when he challenged expectations. When this happened, it seemed as if the doctor was looking past his material form and into areas of his psyche Spock himself was not even aware of.

Then McCoy shook his head, and sighed. "I'm not certain of much of anything right now, Spock. But I do know Christine." He looked over at Kirk, who was just as gravely focused on the nurse. "If she can't calm her, no one can."

* * *

The sudden silence behind her was heavy and oppressive. She felt her heart begin to pound. _What possessed me to be so presumptive? _She thought. _What if I'm wrong about this whole thing?_

_Never mind that_, she told herself firmly. _If I appear nervous to my patient it won't help matters. I've trained myself to appear confident, and to soothe my patients in spite of my own emotional state._

She took the lady's hand in her own.

"I am Nurse Christine Chapel of the U.S.S. Enterprise," she said quietly, solidly. "I am here to help you."

The courtesan's teeth chattered.

"You are remembering traumatic events from your childhood. Do not attempt to repress them."

"I can't breathe," she whispered distractedly.

"Yes, you can." Christine caught her eye, and held it. "If you can speak, you can breathe."

"I…" She seemed to drift away. "These images…they aren't real—I'm losing my mind—"

"No, you're not," Christine said, holding her hand a little tighter. "What is your name?"

A slight pause. "T'Reshke."

"Listen to me, T'Reshke." Her voice became softer, lower. "You are not losing your mind. Everything you remember is real—as real as you and I now, in this room."

"It cannot be." A look of pain crossed her face. "I have been in Madam Rahaneti's house from birth."

Christine started. "Is that what she told you?"

"Everyone here knows this."

"Then everyone has been deceived, or they are deceiving you. T'Reshke—" She took hold of her shoulders. "If you have been here from birth, then Starfleet, the Vulcan High Command, and your own memory are all false. I tell you they cannot all share the same falsehood. The logical conclusion: you have been deliberately deceived."

"Deceived…"

"If the truth was kept from you, you would never have reason to leave."

Hesitantly, as if uncertain of what she would see, T'Reshke turned to stare at the Madam and her daughter.

Aamra looked away.

From the other side of the room, Kirk watched as T'Reshke's trembling hand slid over her heart. He chewed on his lip. "It doesn't seem to be working," he whispered.

"Give it time," McCoy reassured him. "Chapel's pretty good at this sort of thing. Just let her work."

"At this point," Kirk said gloomily, "we have no choice."

Beside them, Spock's attention was fixed on Nurse Chapel and her patient. Where Kirk, McCoy, and the ladies heard only murmurs, Spock could distinguish every word. What he was hearing interested him greatly.

"Where assumptions fail," she was saying, "you can depend on that logic."

T'Reshke shut her eyes, and shivered.

_She's trying to shut out her feelings,_ thought Christine, _but she doesn't know how. The memory is too strong._

She decided to take a different tack. Fluidly, she wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "Tell me what you see."

The courtesan turned her face to the window, and the diamond that hung from the part in her hair flashed in the last rays of sunlight. "A candle…" Her voice was hesitant.

"Don't be afraid," she whispered. "I'm right here."

Her eyes moved behind her eyelids, tracking the images of her memory. "Something blocks the light. Dark shapes…" Her breath caught, and Christine held her tighter.

"C'mon, Chapel," McCoy said under his breath, as Kirk placed a hand worriedly on his shoulder. "Don't lose her now."

Spock didn't remind him that the nurse couldn't hear his encouragement. He was focused on the Vulcan's halting words.

She went on. "Someone started yelling—" She blinked, slowly. "I was yelling. Broken glass on the floor… my father, running…and the glass was green in the candlelight. Green, like spilled paint…"

Her troubled gaze traveled down to her own painted feet. She drew them under her skirt.

"He fell…my candle went out." Silver chimed as she raised a hand before her face. "The air is so thick with smoke—a black cloth over my face—heh kanok-vei mu'gel'es…ek mu'gel'es…"

"T'Reshke."

At the sound of Christine's voice, she opened her eyes.

"T'Reshke, listen to me. These memories are nothing to be afraid of. They happened, but they can't hurt you. Let them come to you—and let them pass."

"I can't make them leave."

"No, you can't. But, really, they've always been there—just buried. Now that you've seen what happened, you don't have to hide anymore. You can accept it, and let it be."

Spock stood in perfect silence, listening. If Chapel had hoped to glean some clue regarding her captors' identity, T'Reshke hadn't given any. As it was, her memories would have to be drawn out word-by-word if they hoped to find something in them to disprove Rahaneti's accusation. _If only I could see what she saw_, he thought, _this whole painful process could be avoided._

He watched as Chapel knelt before her calmly, protectively, listened as she encouraged her patient to speak. T'Reshke still trembled, but her eyes had regained their clarity—the light that reflected off the courtesan's jewels played across Chapel's face in sharp, leaping patterns. Slowly, the uneven rise and fall of the opal about T'Reshke's neck began to match the steady rhythm of the nurse's own breathing. The two women seemed to become extensions of each other.

It wasn't what he would have done. But, whatever she was doing, it seemed to be working.

"It's difficult now," Christine continued, "but it doesn't have to be. You can end the confusion, once and for all. If you come with me to Vulcan, you can find all the missing pieces for yourself."

T'Reshke sank back into the folds of her veil. "To Vulcan," she said, and bowed her head. "I cannot…"

Christine's heart fell. "No one will make you leave if you aren't yet ready—I'll see to that," she said, turning to look sharply at Kirk. "Your health is the most important thing."

The courtesan seemed to wince. "No," she said, shaking her head. "It isn't that." The shivering subsided. Tentatively, she reached up to straighten her veil. "I have been expecting Vulcan to become aware of my existence for some time now. But I had always imagined they would leave me alone. After all, I had nothing to do with them. And what…whatever I remember, Vulcan remains as alien to me as every other world." She sat a little straighter. "I cannot expect to find a place there."

"Unconnected to Vulcan," Christine breathed. The words came to her as if they had always been there. Without knowing why, she turned to look at Spock. He stared back, with an expression both grave and perplexed. She frowned. "T'Reshke, Vulcan may not be your home, but you are not unconnected with it," she continued. "Now that you remember it, all that remains is to coax Vulcan into remembering you."

"You mean, into accepting me." Her eyebrow raised, and the shadow of a smile darkened her face. "And how will I accomplish this?"

"By showing them you are not afraid." She stood, and offered the courtesan her hand.

T'Reshke hesitated only a moment before reaching out and taking it.

Across the room, Kirk smiled in amazement. "My God, Bones," he murmured, as he watched his head nurse help the lady Vulcan to her feet. "She's done it."

"M'Benga had reason to trust her—she knows her stuff." He smirked at Spock. "You know, for all her lack of training, that girl has a lot of fortitude. I don't know many humans who would've pulled out of a panic attack that quickly."

"If you're trying to tell me that training isn't everything, Doctor," he replied, "don't bother. Your argument is in error—obviously T'Reshke has had no lack of training. It simply hasn't been…traditional."

"No, it hasn't," came T'Reshke's voice from across the room. It was just loud enough for the humans to hear as well.

"Careful, Spock," Kirk whispered. "Don't forget she has Vulcan ears, too."

Spock made no reply. He watched as the two women slowly advanced towards them, T'Reshke supported on Nurse Chapel's arm like a strange sort of mirror image. The courtesan's silver bangles clinked softly, muffled against Chapel's sleeve, just loud enough for him to hear.

"It hasn't been traditional," she continued, "But nothing I have been taught, no…training I have received, could have prepared me for this." With a sliding of silk she turned to Christine, who nodded as the courtesan left her arm. "But what I have seen, I will not deny. I cannot." She moved to stand before the Madam and her daughters. "I cannot remain here and be satisfied any longer. Everything I've ever known is now suspect…"

The Madam clenched her jaw. She knew there was nothing more to say.

"Please understand," T'Reshke said, reaching out to them. "I must see where these images came from. I want to know how they came to be in my memory. If I must travel to Vulcan to do so, then so be it."

Aamra's lip trembled. "They will not allow you to return, will they?"

T'Reshke turned to Spock.

"I don't know," he said. "That depends on the High Command."

"The High Command," T'Reshke said quietly, "has taken from me the only home I have ever known. Yet I will swear my allegiance to them, if that is what is required."

Spock lowered his eyes.The Madam's accusation flashed in his mind—but he said nothing.

"Well, if you're going to take her, take her," Rahaneti said bitterly, rising from the cushions. "But don't loiter here. My girls and I have business to attend to—and my guests have been waiting."

"If, ah," Kirk said, tugging on his earlobe, "if we can compensate you in any way—"

"Who do you think I am," she interrupted archly, whirling on him, "that you believe I cannot take care of my own brothel?" She turned back to T'Reshke. "I can see that I've lost your trust—very well. Now we have no use for each other at all." Her eyes flicked greedily onto the jewels on T'Reshke's arms, neck, and brow, and the finely crafted ornaments on her ankles and in her hair. "You'll get out of here if you have any gratitude."

Silk rustled as T'Reshke reached for the clasp of her necklace.

"No! Keep your jewels!" She drew herself up, as if in response to an assault on her dignity. "I am not so poor. And perhaps, when you are finally on Vulcan, alone and dependent only on yourself—you will find yourself in need of them."

"Then, Madam," she said, letting her hands fall, "farewell."

Without another word, Madam Rahaneti swept away.

Supporting Nargis, Aamra turned to follow her mother. Before passing through the curtain above the dais, she turned back; there were tears in her eyes. Her lips parted, as though she would speak—but no words came.

"Go, Aamra," T'Reshke whispered. She watched her recede into the hallway, until the chiming of her anklets faded into silence.

T'Reshke turned to Christine, who returned her gaze with calm sincerity. "You spoke of an end to confusion, the promise of truth and purpose."

"I did."

"And you believe that I can fulfill that promise on Vulcan, when all I have is a memory and the remnants of a lost life?"

"I know it."

"Then I will follow you there."


End file.
